


The Five Trials

by DoubleApple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hd_erised, Courting Rituals, Courtship, Dancing, Fluff and Smut, H/D Erised 2018, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kissing, M/M, Many secondary characters you know and love, Mention of past trauma, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mutual Masturbation, Poetry, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Snakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleApple/pseuds/DoubleApple
Summary: Harry’s willing to go to great lengths for the chance to date Draco — even when those lengths come in the form of an 11th-century courtship ritual. Even when he’s pretty sure he’d rather die (again) than dance in public.





	1. Before the Trials

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xErised](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xErised/gifts).



> xErised, thank you for giving me a reason to do a courtship fic! I’ve always wanted to try one, and it was a total pleasure to write this for you.
> 
> All the thanks in the world to my amazingly wonderful beta, M, and to the fantastic J for the expert assistance with the fussy poetry. Thanks also to the mods for running this incredible fest.

“So what are the Five Trials, exactly?” 

Harry can’t keep the scepticism from his voice. It’s brutally early on a Sunday, but Hermione already has that look on her face, the one that says she cannot wait one more moment to explain some naff bit of research. That look always leads to trouble. 

“They’re part of a very proper, very old courtship ritual.” She’s surrounded by books, spread across her and Ron’s kitchen table. “It was developed by Sir Oswyn John Daundelyon in the 11th century, when he used it to win the hand of Lady Lettice Wilmot in 1083. They were part of the same the wizarding dynasty as Rowena Ravenclaw.”

Harry rubs his forehead. He isn’t awake enough yet for Sir Osywn or Lady Lettice or their family tree. 

He waves his wand at the coffee pot, which flies over to refill his mug. He aims it at Hermione’s mug too; it really is dreadfully early, especially for a weekend. It’s cold and grey outside, Ron’s still asleep upstairs, and Harry and Hermione are figuring out how he can date Draco Malfoy. 

It’s an odd Sunday already. 

“Malfoy’s doing this to torture me,” Harry grumbles. “And it’s working already, and I haven’t even begun yet.”

“I mean, technically, you and Draco don’t even know if you fancy each other yet,” Hermione says reasonably, pushing her glasses up on her head so they hold back her cloud of messy curls. She yawns and rubs her eyes. 

“Technically,” Harry agrees. “But we’ve worked together for years, now. He’s mental to ask me to do all of this to just go on a first date.”

“Agreed, although there is something appropriate about making it a formal proposal.” Hermione motions the cream over with her wand and it floats lazily into her hand. “I know you get on well at Mungo’s, but Potions and Pediatrics are in different wings of the hospital, aren’t they? Do you even talk that often?”

“Most days, yeah,” Harry says. “Sometimes we work on cases together, and I always try to— well, we see each other plenty.” He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. The truth is that Harry doesn’t know when or why or how this pash on Malfoy started, just that it’s here now, and he wants rather badly to do something about it even though his fifth-year self would feel beyond horrified. He wants to see Draco outside of work, wearing something besides their standard-issue hospital robes, wants to take him to dinner or a Muggle film or straight to bed, ideally—

Hermione, who's noticed Harry's blush, of course, has a knowing look on her face as she interrupts his daydream. “So you’re ready to demonstrate your fitness as a man and a provider, then? You should know, Harry, all these pureblood rituals seem sweet on the surface, but they’re more than a bit awful. Gender normative, anti-Muggle, full of deep-seated racism and classism… you’re sure you want to go through with this?”

Harry is not at all sure he wants to go through with this. Stalling for time, he Summons the sugar bowl. He usually takes his coffee black, but this pot is spectacularly bad at making it, and it always turns out thick and bitter. Despite that, it tastes comforting. He’d drunk this coffee every morning for years, when he and Ron and Hermione had all lived in this cottage together after the war. They’d slept in the same room, most of the time, trading beds because they couldn’t sleep without the other two close and safe. They’d healed at this cottage, and Harry still loves being here, still thinks of it as a haven. 

“You know you won’t be able to talk to Draco at all during the courtship, right?” Hermione asks gently.

“What? Really?"

“Yes, well, he has to witness you performing the Trials, but he isn’t technically allowed to interact with you in any way. So we need to make sure he’s present and watching you, but you can’t speak to him.” 

“We talk all the time at work!” Harry doesn’t like the sound of this. 

Hermione looks at him sympathetically. “Not now, you don’t.” 

“Then I’ll just have to do it all as fast as possible. Five trials, five days, right?” he asks.

“That’s ambitious, but you can certainly try,” Hermione says. “No Time-Turners or similar, though — the guidelines say you can’t use Gillyweed or any mind-altering substances. No potions or charms.”

“So basically, you’re saying I can’t use magic? Ancient purebloods hate Muggles, but now I’m meant to act like one?” Harry asks. He recognises the look on Hermione’s face all too well, and it means he doesn’t even know the half of it yet. 

“Sort of. You can use some magic, but it’s all very regimented and you need to do things by the book,” Hermione says, tapping the nearest cover. “It needs to be completely correct so his parents will accept it, right? Will accept _you_.”

Harry sighs and takes another swig of coffee. “Malfoy is so obviously the one who wants this, but he claims it’s because of his parents. I don’t know, I don’t understand parent things, I guess.”

“Well, admittedly, this is a very weird one.” She gestures to the piles of notes and books around her, a quill sticking out from behind her ear, and Harry’s struck by how deeply he loves her. She’s just doing this for him, just to see him happy, even though she can’t really understand why he wants to date Malfoy in the first place. Harry’s not sure he understands it himself, except for the way he feels whenever Draco jokes with him during some awful meeting, or worries his bottom lip between his teeth when he’s thinking about a problem, or checks up on a patient half a dozen times just because he’s concerned. 

Nudging his chair closer to Hermione, Harry leans against her side and rests his head on her shoulder. She rests her head on top of his too, familiar and warm, and then tousles his hair and slides a different gigantic book closer to them.

“Well, okay, let’s look on the bright side,” she says diplomatically. “You’ll do it in only a week, so it won’t take ages, at least. There’s no way Draco or his parents could possibly question the validity of the Trials, because they’re very established. And all of them are done in public — so you’ll have witnesses to your obvious fitness as a suitor.”

“Not sure I love the sound of the word ‘witnesses.’ Or ‘Trials.’ Or ‘suitor,’” Harry grumbles. 

Just then, Ron thumps down the stairs into the kitchen. He kisses Hermione’s head and touches Harry’s shoulder. His hair is wild, and the imprint of pillow creases are still visible on his face. “Morning, mate. Are you officially on your way to becoming a _suitor_ , then?”

“Guess so,” Harry says, reluctance colouring his words. 

Ron surveys the table — nothing but books and coffee — and moves to the counter to start breakfast. 

“I still can’t get my head around you doing all this rubbish just for a chance with _Malfoy_ ,” he says. His mouth twists a little on the name and Hermione shoots him a look. Ron appeals to her, wordlessly, with an “I’m trying!” look on his face, and Harry can’t help but smile.

“I know it seems crazy,” Harry says. “I just… I kind of can’t stop thinking about him.”

Hermione and Ron glance at each other; Harry can’t quite read their expressions. With a little pang, he also remembers why he left this house, this kitchen, this terrible coffee, even though it was painful — the two of them are close beyond words, and he’s still and always half a step away. 

“Anyway,” he tries to recover quickly, “did you have to do anything to impress Hermione’s parents?”

“Nope,” Ron calls over his shoulder, rummaging in the fridge. “They loved me straightaway.”

He emerges with a stack of eggs, sausages, marmalade, and other miscellaneous bits and bobs. It looks like he’s preparing a gigantic fry-up, and Harry’s stomach rumbles. 

“My mum and dad respected my choice to date whomever I please,” Hermione says pointedly. “But they do like you very much, yes.”

“It’s my good chompers.” Ron flashes his teeth. “Strong genes and all that.”

“And Molly’s using straightening charms on you for years,” Harry adds. 

“Oh yeah, that too.” Ron lights a fire in the grate to start the toast and waves a large pot of jam onto the table. 

“Chompers — I hope no one’s judging me on those grounds,” Harry says, and picks up a mug to examine the reflection of his not-terribly-straight teeth. No one was around to cast straightening charms on him, or even consider Muggle orthodontia. Dudley had had braces for years. 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says. “You’ve done… quite a lot in your life, you know. Anyone with any sense would be begging for you to date their son.”

“Much less _those_ tossers,” Ron mutters. “They’re lucky the whole lot of them isn’t in Azkaban—“

“The Five Trials it is, then,” Hermione says, shooting Ron a look, and this one, Harry can read perfectly. “Listen, you can start tomorrow before work. We’ll just pick out five of the most simple rituals, update them for modern times, and we’ll have it all sorted.”

“I doubt that,” Harry says, but he notices the “we” and feels grateful for it. 

“You’ll be in his bed by the weekend, mate,” Ron says, and then looks slightly horrified by his own words. He takes a huge bite of buttered toast. 

“Cheers to that.” Harry lifts his mug. Hermione clinks it and they both finish their coffee, sealing the deal.


	2. Monday’s Poetry

**The First Trial:**  
_The hour the sun emergeth on the morn_  
_arise and hie thee to the village square_  
_and read aloud thy heart’s own earnest words_  
_with zeal enough to kindle true love fair._

By the time Draco opens the door to his flat, still half-asleep, Harry’s already been knocking for what feels like an hour. Dimly registering the mussed white-blond hair and the sweetly flushed cheeks, Harry risks a quick glance at Draco’s whole body. He rarely sees Draco outside his Mungo’s robes, and he’s _well_ fit in an old t-shirt and joggers hanging low on his hips. Harry wants to touch the soft fabric, wants to trace the dip of Draco’s hipbone, to wrap his arms around—

“Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you doing here, pounding on my door and waking up my neighbours?” He squints at Harry. “Are those your dress robes?”

“Yeah, well,” Harry drags his gaze back up. “I’m here for— to announce my intention to court you.”

“Oh. You are?” Draco’s eyebrows shoot up; he looks shocked. 

“Why are you surprised, Malfoy? We talked about this,” Harry says. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually— er, start so quickly.” Draco rubs a hand over his face. “Come in, Potter, let’s not discuss this standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night.”

Draco turns back inside and Harry follows him. His flat is small and modest, not at all what Harry would have pictured. It smells nice, though, like laundry soap and oranges, and it’s on the third floor of a prime location in the centre of London. Draco’s building is in the heart of a mixed neighbourhood of working people finding themselves increasingly surrounded by tony clubs and posh bars and little restaurants that only serve one kind of food, like cheese toast or fancy breakfast cereal. 

“It’s not the middle of the night, Malfoy,” Harry says. “It’s ‘the hour the sun emergeth on the morn.’”

Draco stares at him like he’s gone round the twist. 

“It’s— that’s the poem,” Harry explains. “The courting ritual I picked, it’s called the Five Trials. Sir Dandelion Somebody developed it a million years ago.”

“Sir Oswyn John Daundelyon,” Draco says, an odd tone in his voice. “I know it well. That’s the ritual my father used to court my mother.” 

Harry’s surprised, somehow, but decides not to show it and plows on instead. “Well, good. I suppose your whole posh family will consider it valid, then?”

“Yes, I suppose we will.” Draco is beginning to smile. 

“Good. Then you also probably know that before I start the Trials, I have to get your official consent.”

“By all means.” Draco’s smile is growing and Harry’s beginning to smile too, now. He can’t help it. Here, in his flat in the dim morning light, Draco is simply too lovely. 

“So I have your approval, then? Hermione told me you have to say it out loud.”

“Yes, you have my approval,” Draco says in his most proper voice, with a little snigger at the end. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. This is going to be…” Harry runs a hand through his hair and exhales loudly. “This is going to be a _lot_.”

“I mean, Potter, it isn’t really about me. My parents—“

“No, Draco, don’t. This is on you,” Harry interrupts gently. “Lucius would never accept me, not if I bloody well lit myself on fire for you, both because I’m a bloke and because I’m _me_. And your mum would love me if even if showed up at the Manor in a leather thong and demanded you bone me in her fancy drawing room, in front of those creepy portraits where only the eyes move.”

Draco laughs, but Harry sees him draw a quick little breath at the mention of the leather. Now that’s interesting. 

“So don’t play, Malfoy,” Harry continues. “We both know I’m doing this for you.”

Draco leans against the wall. “How can you just not care about my father in all this?” he asks, a note of real concern creeping into his voice. 

“I’ve been not caring about your father for more than a decade. It’s quite easy, really, you should try it sometime.”

Draco smiles, but he says, “No, I’m serious.”

Harry makes a conscious decision to lean next to him on the wall, not touching, but close enough that he can feel the warmth of Draco’s body. “At some point you just have to decide that your dad is just a person, right? And not a very good person at that. He’s made a lot of mistakes—“

“Worse than mistakes,” Draco says quietly. 

“Worse than,” Harry agrees. “But these rituals, the courtship — I’m all right with it if it’s about you, and doing what you need to feel comfortable. So, let me get to it before the sun comes up too much, okay? I’m not supposed to talk to you at all during the Trials, after I receive your initial consent, and I don’t want to break all these sodding pureblood rules before I even start.”

“All right.” Draco’s face is very close to Harry’s, and his eyes are shining in the low light. When he’s this near, Harry can see the scruff of blond stubble on Draco’s chin, and he can’t resist, he reaches up— 

“May as well get on with it, then,” Draco says, suddenly turning away. “I can’t wait to hear this poem that’s on offer. What did you choose, Shakespeare?”

Harry stares after him. How did he know? “Er, I have to go downstairs. It has to be done in public— all the Trials do.”

“Oh, right. Off with you, then!” Draco opens the door to the hallway and ushers him out. 

“You’re enjoying this a bit too much already,” Harry mutters and clomps back down the stairs. Thank Sir Daundelyon’s ghost that Draco lives on a wizarding street; Harry can’t even imagine what a block full of Muggles would make of him in his formal black dress robes, declaiming his love at seven o’clock on a Monday morning, while they’re on their way to the tube. 

Back outside on the pavement, Harry looks up just as Draco opens his window. It’s cold, but drizzling and grey. 

Harry unrolls the parchment with “Sonnet 116” written at the top in Hermione’s lawyerly scrawl. He takes a deep breath, plants his feet as though he’s about to duel, and begins. 

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_  
_Admit impediments. Love is not love_  
_Which alters when it alteration finds,_  
_Or bends with the remover to remove._

Draco’s head is too distant for Harry to catch his expression, but his neighbours on the floor below him seem to have taken notice. The window’s being wrenched open inch by inch, so Harry hurries to continue. 

_O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; _

Two grey heads pop out of the window just below Draco’s. Harry struggles on. 

_It is the star to every wand'ring bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. _

“What are you on about, lad?” A thick brogue, friendly but doubtful. 

“Um, sorry to trouble you, I’m doing a… courtship… thing,” he finishes lamely. 

“Courtship! Oh, lovely. Aren’t you just darling!” a woman says, and being called “darling” might be worse than being laughed at, Harry thinks. 

“Er, thanks. All right if I keep going? I’m almost through.”

“Oh yes yes, carry on!”

Harry clears his throat again. 

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come; _

“He looks a bit familiar, dear, doesn’t he?” the woman muses, and Harry knows just where this is going. 

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. _

He’s talking louder and faster; maybe he can finish before—

“Is that _Harry Potter_?” 

Bloody hell. 

“Yes!” Harry calls. “Yes, thank you, it _is_ Harry Potter, and he’s trying to participate in a barmy courtship ritual, and he’s not getting very far because he’s being interrupted, so could you please just let Harry Potter finish these last two lines so he can put all of us out of our misery!”

“Sorry, lad, sorry!” the woman calls. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist! We were just surprised, is all. Go on and finish up, then!”

“I would have done, but you’re talking to me… oh, nevermind,” Harry says. He clears his throat again. 

_If this be error and upon me prov'd,  
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd._

Draco’s window is still open but Harry can’t see his head anymore. The two neighbours are applauding, though, so he makes a little bow and shouts “thank you, sorry to bother you” up to their window. 

“Good on you, Harry Potter!” the man calls, as Harry stuffs the parchment into his robe pocket and begins to walk away. He can hear the woman still talking loudly as they wrestle the window shut again. 

“Was he talking to the Malfoy boy upstairs? And that part about the ‘bending sickle’ — is that a queer bit? How delightful!”

Oh yes, utterly delightful, Harry thinks as he hurries back to the communal Apparition point. One down, four more humiliating displays to go.


	3. Tuesday’s Gift

**The Second Trial:**  
_Create a token of thine yearning heart_  
_To demonstrate devotion without measure._  
_Endurance and loyalty, love so true_  
_Embodied in the earth’s most splendid treasure._

Flush with the relative success of the poem, Harry immediately begins preparing for the second Trial. It’s easy enough — he manages to find a perfect specimen in his own back garden. He owls Hermione to ask her to arrange a (mandatorily) supervised visit at their cottage after work that evening, so he can present it to Malfoy before the (again, mandatory) two witnesses. 

Harry tumbles out of the cottage’s Floo just after dinner, the smell of something savoury and delicious still in the air. It makes the house feel homey and warm — and provides a stark contrast to the greasy cone of lukewarm fish and chips that Harry had eaten, standing up, for his own dinner. Ron emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron Harry’d given him years ago that reads, “I’m a Wizard in the Kitchen.”

“Hey, mate,” he says, clapping him on the back. “Want some shepherd’s pie? There’s plenty left.”

“Maybe later, thanks,” Harry says nervously. 

Hermione‘s right on Ron’s heels. “Ooh, let’s see your gift for Malfoy, then!” Harry digs in the pocket of his work robes and holds it out to them, with an odd sinking feeling before she even says a word. Ron looks over her shoulder, raises his eyebrows, and then bites his lips to keep from smiling. It’s beyond obvious, and the sinking feeling sinks a little lower. 

“Harry,” Hermione says carefully. “That’s a lovely gift. But I think the poem meant it to be more like… gemstones.” 

“Gemstones?” Harry asks blankly. Ron’s turned away, but his shoulders are beginning to shake with laughter. 

“You know, sapphires, or diamonds, or rubies. Something fancy.”

“But it said… it said ‘earth’!”

”Well, I think— I mean, it also said ‘finest treasure.’ Meaning something valuable. It also could have been gold, or silver,” she says. “Something mined from the earth.”

“But I did spruce it up! I hit it with, like, seven different beautification charms, and I painted it...” Harry trails off, grasping at straws now. He stares at the large irregular rock, carefully painted with green and silver. 

“You _painted_ it!” Ron howls from the corner. 

“Fuck,” Harry says, closing the rock in his palm again and flopping down on the couch. “Fuck! Why am I such a bloody _fool_?”

“You’re not—“ Hermione begins but her protestations are rendered meaningless by the fact that she’s grinning and can’t say it with a straight face. Ron is positively laid out on the floor, laughing convulsively. 

“I’m glad this is so amusing,” Harry snaps, but even he can’t keep the smile from his face now. It _is_ sort of funny. “Okay, okay, Malfoy’s going to be here any minute, ‘Mione, can we do something? Can I transfigure it into a stupid emerald or a stack of Galleons or something?” 

Harry gets off the couch and goes over so she can have a closer look, but she’s shaking her head.

“Sorry, love, but you know there all sorts of wizarding laws that say you can’t transfigure a plain thing into something of great financial value. Or else we’d all be rich.”

This is daft, Harry knows, but he’d really prefer not to cock this up completely when he’s only on the second Trial. 

“Could you just look at it and see if—“ Harry’s holding the painted rock out to Hermione, his arm extended and palm open, just at the moment the Floo chime sounds and Malfoy steps through, and fuck, Harry thinks, how does he always manage to look so _poised_ when Harry himself is always such a disaster?

Draco brushes a bit of invisible soot from his shoulder. His robes are immaculate and his hair is tied back and gleaming, and he looks fit and refreshed and Merlin’s beard, Harry fancies him. 

But before he can get too lost in some daft fantasy, he realises Draco is staring at him in confusion as he eyes the painted rock, still sitting complacently in Harry’s outstretched hand. 

Draco opens his mouth to say something when Hermione holds up a hand in warning. 

“Don’t!” she says. “You can talk to us, but you can’t talk to Harry.”

Draco nods, looks at Harry fondly, and bursts out laughing. 

Harry's getting a headache. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes as Ron lets out a fresh peal of laughter. 

“How wonderful that the two of you are getting along so brilliantly! You’ve finally found some common ground,” Harry tells Ron pointedly. He sets the rock down on the table a bit harder than strictly necessary. 

“Sorry, mate, sorry. Your beautification charms could use a bit of work. But good effort!” Ron says, trying to stop himself laughing.

“Beautification charms weren’t top on my list of important things to learn while we were fighting for the future of civilisation. And I’d like to see you beautify anything, ever.”

“And” — Harry turns to Hermione — “I knew Draco didn’t need gold, and I’ve never seen him wear jewelry, so I figured… oh fuck it, obviously I botched this one, didn’t I.” 

“No,” Draco says slowly, a small smile curving on his face. “No, you didn’t.”

“Stop!” Hermione says, trying to look cross. “How many times do I have to keep reminding you? You’re just supposed to present it, Harry, and then leave.”

All four of them look at the rock on the table. Before anyone else can mock him, Harry heads for the Floo just as he hears their laughter start up again. 

(Here’s what Harry doesn’t know that night, as he’s whisked back to Grimmauld Place: A minute later, Draco will pocket that bloody rock. As soon as he gets home, he’ll put on his bedside table, right next to the groove where he rests his wand. He’ll brush it with his hand, on purpose, every night, long after poor Harry’s Trials are through.)


	4. Wednesday’s Pets

**The Third Trial:**  
_A tender, caring soul that nurtures life_  
_Unselfish kindness and attention thine_  
_A fortnight’s effort is enough to prove_  
_The heart’s ability to intertwine._

After the cock-up with the rock, things begin to go downhill quickly for Harry. 

After he and Hermione decode the third poem together, Harry asks Ron to go on a scouting mission with him to a wooded glen in the country.

“Why does all this courtship rubbish have to happen so bloody early in the morning?” Ron asks, as Harry sweeps his wand back and forth across the forest floor, searching. 

“Because we both have to go to work later,” Harry says. “And shhh, Ron, you’ll scare them away.” 

“You can’t just Accio one? It’s freezing out here.”

“That’s not in the spirit of the thing,” Harry says. “It has to come willingly, and want to be my pet. Or at least want me to show it ‘unselfish kindness.’”

“All right, but why do we have to catch a snake instead of buying one from a pet shop? Or adopting one or something? Probably there’s some kind of snake rescue, right, like they've got for dogs?”

“Again, not in the spirit of the thing.”

Ron side-eyes him and almost trips on a gnarled tree root. “Is that your way of saying you didn’t think of it?” 

“Maybe.” Harry smiles and Ron snorts in acknowledgement. “But please stop stomping so loudly, you’re just making it take longer, yeah?” They tromp through another clearing, with Harry still sweeping his wand from side to side. 

“You could’ve gotten a nice Crup, or a Pygmy Puff or or an owl or something,” Ron complains, albeit more quietly. 

“I’ll never have another owl,” Harry says as they trudge up a small hill. “And anyway, I thought Draco would like a snake best. Well, or a dragon, but I didn’t think I could handle keeping one of those as a pet.” Harry’s wand finally gives a twitch in the direction of a large pine tree. There’s a crunch and a rustle in the dead leaves at its base. Harry hisses a hello in its general direction, and a soft voice comes back to him. 

_Yesssss Harry Potter?_

Taken aback, Harry pauses a moment before hissing back, _Hello, snake. Would you like to come live with me?_

A not-very-impressive grass snake, unremarkably brown and about eight inches long, emerges from the leaves and slithers toward them. 

_My name is Lumpy_ , it hisses, _and no thank you._

_Your name is Lumpy?_

Ron nudges him. “What’s he saying? Why’re you laughing?”

“Tell you later,” Harry says, as the snake rears slightly and Ron takes a step back. 

_Don’t be so judgmental, Harry Potter, or I’ll never do what you assssssk._

_Er, sorry. I’d be very grateful if you did, and it would just be for a little while._

The snake seems to consider this. _Well, I am rather hungry. Do you have any mice?_

_I’m not sure; I don’t think so._

_What do you intend to feed me, then?_

_Oh, I thought you meant in my walls, in my flat… yes, I’ll get you mice to eat, it won’t be a problem._

“All good, mate? Can we wrap this up? I’d forgot how much I hate hearing you speak Parseltongue. It’s fucking creepy.”

“Yeah, just a sec.” Harry doesn’t tell Ron that how additionally creepy it is that this snake — fully a decade after Voldemort’s defeat, in a random patch of forest he’s never seen before — knows his proper name without being introduced. 

_Lumpy, would you please come with me? I will get mice for you, you have my word._

_All right. Many mice. And no cage, and no drafts or chills. I require warmth, Harry Potter. I must sleep where you sleep._

Also creepy, Harry thinks, but he hisses, _sure, yes, thank you,_ and crouches down. He holds out his arm, and the snake slides toward him and twines around his wrist. It manages to seem slightly disdainful, even while snuggling itself inside the cuff of Harry’s robes. 

“Ugh, let’s get out of here.” Ron grabs Harry’s arm, carefully avoiding Lumpy’s cuff, and Apparates them back home. 

That evening, it's back to Hermione and Ron’s living room. Lumpy’s eaten five tiny mice that Harry Transfigured from chocolate frogs, and the snake is coiled around Harry’s wrist in his now-usual spot. He’d napped in Harry’s bed — on his pillow, in fact — all day. 

When Harry Floos into the cottage, Hermione’s on the couch, drinking red wine and flipping through a huge file of parchment. Ron’s in the kitchen as usual, but this time, Draco’s already arrived. He’s sitting on the other end of the couch with his own glass of wine, in stocking feet with his long legs crossed casually, thumbing through his own file of parchment and looking for all the world as though he belongs there. 

“Er, hi,” Harry says. Draco’s wearing a soft-looking black jumper, and he's pulled his hair back with a black elastic. It’s always tied back at work, too, but some of the silky blond strands are slipping loose now. He carefully tucks one behind his ear when Harry appears. He starts to say something but Hermione cuts him off with her hand. 

“How many times must you two be reminded not to talk to one another? Merlin,” she says. “Hi, Harry, how are you? And Ron, could you come out here, please? We need another witness.” Hermione tucks her legs up under her and Draco does the same. They look like old friends, bookended on the couch, their former rivalry and the years of bad blood between them notwithstanding.

Ron finally emerges from the kitchen, munching on a giant celery stalk. He holds it out to Harry and asks, “Have you had dinner, mate?” 

“Not yet, but I’ll pass on the celery, thanks,” Harry says. Just then, Lumpy decides to poke his head out. He flicks his tongue in the direction of the celery stalk. 

_What’ssssss that?_ he hisses, and Harry replies, without thinking, _Celery, it’s a plant that grows in the ground but not in forests._

And then he catches Draco’s expression — eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He’s trying to hide it, Harry thinks, but he looks… horrified. 

“Oh, er, Malfoy — that’s what this task is,” Ron says, still crunching. “Harry had to find a pet and take care of it to prove he could take care of you, or some such thing. So yesterday morning, we found whatsitsname.”

“Lumpy,” Harry says. “He’s called Lumpy.”

“Lumpy,” Draco repeats faintly. 

“I chose a snake because I can communicate with him,” Harry explains, ostensibly to Hermione. “I thought it would be better than, you know, a regular pet, because I can figure out what it needs.”

“Is it better, then?” Hermione asks, curious. 

“Well…” Harry says. “He doesn’t seem to like me much. Only perked up when I promised I’d return him to the forest as soon as the courtship was over.”

 _Did you say ‘forest’?_ Lumpy hisses. _I wish to go back to the forest, Harry Potter._

 _Soon, I promise_ , Harry says. _Please just wait with me until the weekend, alright? I’ll get you more mice, as many as you want._

 _I do not know what is this ‘weekend,’_ Lumpy says wearily, and Harry catches Draco’s eye again. He looks even more horrified than before, like he’s trying to shrink into the couch. 

“All right, so, yes, I believe he’s proven he’s nurturing and whatnot, are we through here?” Draco begins to gather up his things as if to leave. Quickly. 

“Malfoy, what are you so bothered about?” Ron asks. “Harry thought you’d like the snake. He picked it out just for you.”

Lumpy starts to hiss on Harry’s arm. _Please tell the large orange-furred mammal that you acceded to_ my _will, not the other way around. You did not pick anyone, Harry Potter, I picked you._

_Shhh, can we discuss this later? Lumpy, will you please go back into my cuff now? You’re freaking everyone out. Thank you._

Draco gets that look on his face again, then, pinched and unhappy, and Harry realises it’s not the snake that’s disturbing him. Ron sees it too. 

“Ohhhh, it’s the Parseltongue,” Ron says knowingly. “Downright weird, isn’t it. PTSD and all that. I feel you, mate.”

Malfoy just nods, another piece of that silky hair slipping free. He notices this time and takes out the hair tie, a loose curtain of blond hair swinging down for a moment, and then ties it all back more tightly. 

“Right,” Draco says. “Exactly, Weasley. I mean, Ron.”

Ron gives him a commiserating grimace and offers a fist bump. Draco returns it, awkwardly, and Harry can’t completely stifle his smile. 

“Sorry, I’ll stop speaking Parseltongue,” Harry says, careful not to hiss the sibilant sound in the middle. “We’re done here, right, ‘Mione?” 

“Yes, I think so.” She’s looking over at Ron fondly. Draco’s settled back down on the couch, although he still looks ready to bolt, and he’s still scowling at Harry’s cuff. 

“Okay, then, I’m off. Have a nice night, er, everyone.”

“Bye, Harry,” Ron says. Draco gives him a little worried smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Harry doesn’t much care for it, but it’s too late now, as the green flames whoosh around him and then he’s back at Grimmauld Place again, with only Lumpy for company and the unhappy memory of Draco’s anxious expression.


	5. Thursday’s Show

**The Fourth Trial:**  
_Prepare a grand performance, dazzle all_  
_with pageantry and spectacle so fine._  
_They leap to stand with rapturous applause_  
_until the love thou yearnest for be thine._

The next morning, Harry’s asking a favour of a different Weasley brother. 

“Thanks for opening the shop early for me, George,” Harry mutters as they crowd under the awning of the joke shop. Harry casts his third warming charm in the past five minutes. It’s drizzling miserably, the December rain noncommittal but chilling nonetheless. 

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this for Malfoy,” George says, with true disbelief in his voice. He casts some sort of tricky _Alohamora_ at the door; it’s warded more carefully than Gringotts. Harry shivers in the damp and inches closer to the shop’s dark windows to get out of the rain. 

“Yeah, everyone keeps saying that,” Harry says, not even trying to defend himself. This Trial is the hardest yet, by far — performing a whole show is easily ten times worse than one little poem. 

George finally hauls open the door and lights the lamps of the dim shop with his wand. Tiny pinpricks of light fly from his wand into the sconces on the walls. It’s been ages since Harry’s been here, and the shop looks far more respectable than he remembered. The wonky piles of boxes are gone, replaced by proper displays and signs that literally beckon customers closer, with long crooked fingers and hairy tentacles.

“Well done, George. This place looks brilliant,” Harry says. 

“Thanks, we try.” George’s voice is casual, but his smile is tight. Fred’s memory lingers so strongly here. In the photo above the checkout counter, the twins mug for the camera on the shop’s opening day. They’re impossibly young, impossibly happy, squinting into the sun with gangly freckly arms looped around each other’s shoulders. 

George is looking up at the photo too, now. “He’d have had a field day with your Trials business,” he says to Harry. “He’d never have let you hear the end of it. Courting Malfoy, of all the bloody wizards in the world.”

“I know,” Harry says with an abashed smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s barmy, I know.”

“What’s that saying — the heart wants what the heart wants? And if your heart wants Malfoy…” he trails off and smiles at Harry, in earnest this time, and Harry grins back. 

“Right now, my heart wants to recreate an old-fashioned magic show, I guess. With, like, card tricks and scarves and… whatever other things.” Harry’s not particularly clear on what a magic show _is_ , exactly. Hermione was busy with a case last night and this morning, and he hadn’t wanted to bother her. He’s hoping George will know, but the look on his face isn’t promising. 

“Like, how Muggles think of magic? I’ve heard about those shows,” George says. “Be right back.” He heads to the stockroom and begins rummaging around. 

One of Dudley’s awful birthday parties had brought a magician to the living room of Number Four Privet Drive. Harry had tried to listen with his ear pressed against the thin door of the cupboard, but the man’s words had been covered up by the racket from Dudley’s awful friends. They hadn’t sounded particularly impressed by the magician until he’d somehow begun producing coins — perhaps from their mouths? Harry didn’t know; he hadn’t been able to see anything at all.

George emerges from the stockroom carrying a stack of large parcels. He sets them down on the counter and pushes his floppy fringe out of his eyes. “You think a Muggle magic show is the kind of thing Malfoy’ll go for?” 

“I don’t know, but it’s the thing he’s getting,” Harry says. He doesn’t know what Draco wants, pretty much ever. As Harry eyes the teetering stack of boxes — some of which are rattling ominously from inside — he can’t honestly fathom why he’s doing any of this, except that he can’t stop thinking about Draco’s long hands, his fingers, the way he’ll absently rub at his jaw when he’s thinking on something. The stubble from the other morning, his tousled hair. Harry wants to do the tousling himself, wants to ruffle Draco’s composure and make him come apart, and fuck, now Harry’s half-hard standing here in a joke shop while debating what kind of barmy circus to put on. 

George catches the look on Harry’s face. “Wow, you’re pretty far gone, aren’t you? I’m not going to pretend I understand it, but why don’t you do your trick show, whatever you call it, here, after the shop closes tonight. You can invite all your little mates. And Malfoy, of course. It’ll be a lark.”

And that’s how, hours later, Harry’s standing on a makeshift stage at the back of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, in front of George and Lee Jordan, Luna and her new Quidditch girlfriend, Neville, Ginny, Ron and Hermione, Ron’s mate David from work, Hermione’s friend Qiana from law school, and another half-dozen random people. And, oh Merlin — is that Lucius and Narcissa sitting in the back row? Harry’s worried he’s hallucinating for a moment and pulls at his red bowtie, trying to get more blood-flow to his brain. But no, it’s really them. Hermione’s outdone herself with this guest list, he thinks darkly. 

He tugs at the wretched bowtie again. He’s got on an astoundingly uncomfortable tuxedo, which Hermione insisted all Muggle magicians wear. He doesn’t even want to think about the shiny black cape tied around his neck, or especially the false moustache currently affixed to his upper lip with a too-strong Sticking Charm. 

Draco walks in late and takes his designated seat in the front row next to Pansy Parkinson, who always seems to be wherever Ginny is, these days. When Draco looks at Harry, his mouth drops open and he gives him an almost-pitying smile, and somehow, again, still, this was not the reaction Harry was hoping for. 

He soldiers on. The whole thing feels a bit dodgy. Packs of Exploding Snap cards keep going off in the middle of card tricks — which are rubbish, honestly, when you could just Summon the card someone had pulled instead of trying to guess it. The scarves and coins Harry pulls from people’s ears aren’t especially interesting, and he has to use a severing charm on the malfunctioning trick handcuffs. He rips off the ticklish fake moustache in the middle of the act because it keeps making him sneeze. 

His audience — drinking bottles of cider and butterbeer provided by Harry; they may as well have a good time, at least — gets progressively rowdier as the show goes on. 

Unsurprisingly, no one volunteers for him to pretend to saw them in half. “Maybe just skip that one, then, Harry!” George calls from the back. “Girls aren’t exactly your speed, anyway,” Ginny agrees from the front row, and Harry mutters “you’re not helping!” at her. 

She shrugs and calls, “Sorry, I didn’t know helping was my job here,” and Pansy laughs loudly, and it's time to wrap this up before they start properly heckling, Harry thinks. He goes in for the grand finale — pulling a rabbit out of his top hat — which seems spectacularly unimpressive, like something a second-year could do with no trouble. 

So Harry adds a little flourish at the end and Transfigures Cormac McLaggen’s gym bag into a truly gigantic white rabbit, which immediately hops onto his lap and starts nuzzling his face. That’s a crowd-pleaser, so he Transfigures Narcissa’s handbag into a demure grey bunny; Luna’s earrings into two tiny black ones; Blaise’s poncy cravat into a chubby calico; and finally his own top hat into a dozen tiny top hats. He waves his wand at them, causing them to fly onto the heads of the surprised-looking rabbits hopping gamely all over the room. 

People applaud and Harry bows, foolishly, smiling. George calls out, “encore!” but Harry knows about stopping while you’re ahead. He casts a quick _Finite Incantatem_ to turn everything back the way it was, bows one last time and gives an awkward flourish with his cape, and everyone gets up to leave.

Narcissa comes up to claim her handbag, which had hopped up on the makeshift stage with Harry. He hands it back to her, a bit sheepish, but she gives him a quick hug. Her cool cheek presses against his and she whispers, “that was charming, Harry!” Her husband glowers behind her, all haughty Malfoy chill. But Harry makes it a point to call, “hullo, Lucius!” and not care if he barely returns the greeting. He and Narcissa start to make their way to the door, as several Weasleys approach the stage. 

“That was a nice bit of magic there at the end,” George says. “You really pulled it out, mate. As it were,” he adds, and Ron snickers beside him. Harry laughs but looks around for Draco; he’s in the back, speaking with his parents, inscrutable as always. 

“Muggle magicians are pants at magic!” Ginny says. “They could at least Transfigure an umbrella into a unicorn, or something. Rabbits out of hats. It doesn’t even make sense.”

“Hey, I didn’t make up their rules,” Harry says, and she knocks into his shoulder in that familiar Ginny way that he loves and still misses, sometimes. 

“I mean, you get points for trying. Good on you for going through with all this,” she says, and Harry knows she means more than just the magic show. Harry is eager to be finished with it all. At least tomorrow is Friday — the final Trial, the end of the week, and hopefully the night of his first real date with Draco Malfoy.


	6. Friday’s Dancing

**The Fifth Trial:**  
_Take heart, fair swain, thy trials near an end!_  
_One final dauntless task must thou complete:_  
_A dance, a dance! To win thy true love’s heart_  
_Thou must bring grace and gladness with thy feet._

It’s the Fifth Trial that finally breaks Harry.

Wands Out is the most popular gay club in wizarding London, currently jammed with what feels like a million twirling, twisting bodies dancing in deafening chaos. Harry’s leaning against the bar, trying to stay well away from the throng. It’s quite dark and everyone’s ignoring him, thankfully… but not for long, given the prospect of the impending “grace and gladness.” Harry winces, just thinking about it. The whole week, he’s been dreading this Trial in particular. The fact that it’s the last one doesn’t particularly help.

Hermione comes up beside him, wearing a tight white mini-dress and knee-high platform boots. She’d been the one to choose this place. Registering the miserable look on Harry’s face, she gives him a little apologetic smile as she hands him a drink. 

“Thanks,” he shouts over the music, shuffling aside to make room for her. “You look nice.”

“So do you,” she shouts diplomatically, checking out the outfit they’d Transfigured together earlier, but Harry thinks he sees her wince. She presses up against him and shouts right into his ear, “Sorry, love. I know this isn’t your scene any more than it is mine. But Ginny told me that Pansy said that Draco likes it here.”

Harry just nods, sighs, and moves his elbow out of a sticky puddle on the bar. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that maybe he and Malfoy are just too different for this to work out, if Malfoy really does like this place. It’s pounding with house music, all chaotic bass lines with something shrieking over top, and Harry can feel it reverberate throughout his body. But the lights are the worst of it — intermittent slashes of green and blue. It’s far too much like curselight, shooting through a forest or a battle, for comfort. 

Hermione sighs too and Harry puts an arm around her, guessing she’s thinking something similar because she’d much rather be home with a book and a glass of wine, like any sane person.

Ron dances over, empty beer bottle in hand, a few minutes later. Unlike the two of them, he looks like he’s enjoying himself, and he’s followed by a crowd of happy-seeming, or at least drunk-seeming, revellers. 

“Rounded everyone up for you, Harry!” Ron calls over the pounding din. “Malfoy’s here!”

Harry doesn’t see Draco right away, but there’s everyone else from the magic show — minus Narcissa and Lucius, thank Merlin — plus Hannah and Luna and Blaise Zabini and a few more Slytherins. Harry sees Greg Goyle in the dim light, shouting over the music to Pansy and a few witches he doesn’t recognise, and then he spots an unmistakable white-blond head in the crowd. Draco’s dressed all in black, a simple sleeveless t-shirt stretched across his chest and tight trousers. He’s dancing almost absently, sinuous and sexy, aloof and gorgeous, completely in his element. He looks like he belongs here; it does something weird and jumpy to Harry’s insides.

It’s time. Harry takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, downs the rest of his drink, and slams the glass on the bar — perhaps a little too hard, because everyone in the vicinity looks over as he tries to hop onto its surface it in one smooth leap…

… and winds up bashing his hip into the side of the bar, toppling a few rickety tall chairs in the process. He lands back on his feet, albeit unsteadily, right next to Ron. 

“Forget you’re only 5-foot-7, mate?” Ron asks from his vantage point of half a foot taller, and he’s lucky Harry doesn’t hex those extra six inches off of him right where he stands. 

“Will you shut up and _help me_?” he hisses instead. Ron cups his hands for Harry to step into and boosts him onto the bar. 

Once he’s up there, though, he finds he’s nearly lost his nerve. Several blokes are already dancing on the bar, gyrating away — and looking bloody hot while doing it, so cheers to them — but they’re ignoring Harry completely and actually move away to give him more space. So much for blending in. It seems very high, suddenly, to see the crowd from this vantage point, his friends just heads below him, unable to talk or communicate with them. 

_Go on, then, dance_ , Harry tells himself, just as he catches another glimpse of Malfoy in the crowd. He’s making his way even closer to the bar, and Harry’s mouth goes dry. He regrets everything in his whole life that’s led up to this point — the Trials, his stupid eternal pash on Malfoy, their jobs at Mungo’s, the bloody Room of Requirement, beating him at Quidditch, ignoring that handshake on the first day they met, everything. 

But there’s nothing for it. He’s standing here, on a bar, everyone’s eyes on him, and there’s no turning back. Harry starts to move. He’s really doing this, then. Dancing. 

He closes his eyes and tries to feel his body. He bounces his knees and moves his feet first, the way Hermione showed him. 

Step, side. Step, side. 

Distantly, Harry remembers that Hermione still likes Muggle boy bands from the ‘80s. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his arms; they dangle at his sides, and he’s not sure if this counts as dancing, and it needs to count, so he lifts his arms up and… claps? He is not sure why he’s clapping. 

Other people have moved to the side to give him space and, likely, to mock him. Draco’s head is directly below him now, flanked by Goyle and Blaise. Hermione and Ron are still right there too, and Harry thinks he can pick out Luna and Ginny and Neville behind them. 

The song is reaching a fever pitch, with four witches imitating something that sounds like a wolf’s howling over a relentless, headache-inducing beat. All right, okay, Harry tells himself. You’re still moving, you’re doing this. He lifts his hands over his head to clap, moves his shoulders a little. 

He looks down again, trying to make out faces in the pulsing green light, and sees Luna — bless her — clapping along with her hands above her own head. 

But then, horribly, right as he goes for an extra-dramatic shoulder wiggle, a gigantic spotlight comes out of nowhere, trained right on him. A magically enhanced voice booms out, “the one and only, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived!”

There’s a smattering of surprised applause as Harry feels his body freeze for a moment. He should have expected this, Hermione had even mentioned the possibility, but the idea of public attention hadn’t seemed nearly so troubling when they’d just been plotting this at the kitchen table last night. Every eye in the place turns towards him. 

Harry freezes for several long seconds. But, Godric Gryffindor be damned, he musters his courage and begins dancing again, this time nearly blinded by the spotlight. 

Side step, side step. 

Clap over the head. 

Shoulder wiggle. 

Impossibly, the din inside the club increases as people clap and cheer, and Harry can feel the beat of the bass coming up through the bar, echoing through his body. He adds a little swivel of his hips. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe the crowd is with him. Maybe—

He looks down and Malfoy’s face is illuminated in the spotlight, and he’s… laughing. 

From his strange vantage point, Harry can’t tell if it’s a “yeah we’re all having fun” laugh, or a mocking laugh, a mean one, a more adult version of that fucking smirk Malfoy had had on his face for half their school years — but whatever it is, it’s not what Harry had hoped for and it doesn’t feel particularly encouraging. Goyle’s laughing too, next to him, and Harry is hit with a bolt of clarity so hard that he nearly topples off the bar. Why is he doing this? _Why?_ He still wants Malfoy so much, wants him desperately, but humiliating himself is getting old quickly. And he isn’t sure whether he loves or hates that smirk on Malfoy’s face. 

Harry jumps down off the bar and stumbles on the landing again. Ron tries to say something but Harry needs to get out, _now_ ; he pushes past Ron, past everyone, and flees toward an exit into the alley behind the club. Hermione told everyone there was a Portkey back there that she’d set to go back to her and Ron’s flat, for anyone too drunk to Apparate, and maybe, Harry thinks, he can get away without anyone stopping him. He’s elbowing people aside frantically and pushing out the door and the freezing air of the alley hits his sweaty face with a welcome smack — what was he even _doing_ in there, dancing, _fuck_ — and he’s reaching down for one of Ron’s old wooden spoons, his hand is just inches away from it, when suddenly his arm is yanked back. 

It’s Draco, of course, the last person Harry wants to see, panting like he’d been running a marathon. 

“Potter!” he says, his quick breaths coming out as little white puffs in the cold. 

“No, Malfoy, I’m sick of getting laughed at. Leave me alone.” Harry sounds petulant, but he doesn’t care. 

“Come on. You didn’t have to _flee_ , for Merlin’s sake, we were just having a good time. It really is remarkable how terrible a dancer you are—“

“Thanks for the fucking breaking news alert! I _know_ I’m terrible! I never said I was good at dancing!” Harry can’t believe he’s losing it like this, but what’s worse is that he can’t even bring himself to hate Draco Malfoy, not even now. Fuck. 

Draco looks genuinely sorry, and steps nearer to him. Harry’s suddenly aware that Draco’s hand is still on his bare arm, burning hot and dry in the freezing dampness of the alley. 

“Harry…. I don’t… it’s really just a nice change of pace to see you being bad at something.”

That reignites his anger. “What the fuck are you talking about, Malfoy? I’m bad at a _million_ things! I’m bad at _everything_! Dancing isn’t even the half of it — I mean, I’m bad at fucking _dating_ , for one thing, _clearly_ , because this is going _so well_!” Harry throws his hands up in the air. Draco tries to interrupt, but Harry’s not finished. “I’m bad at dancing, at performing, at poetry, at choosing pets and finding bloody gemstones — oh, but d’you know what I’m really brilliant at?”

Harry stares Draco down, waiting for an answer, but Draco just looks sorry. Harry plows on anyway. “I’m really brilliant at humiliating myself! I’m wearing a fucking mesh shirt, for Merlin’s sake. I have a glow stick in my hair! What else do I need to do?”

“Nothing.” Draco looks more serious, and sadder now. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to for you to humiliate yourself.”

It dimly registers that Draco’s just apologised to him, earnestly, not to mention used his proper name — but Harry’s not through. “But you did, though, a bit! You tried to make it about your family— oh, and by the way, your father’s self-hatred and internalized homophobia is pants. Absolute pants. And I’m pants too, pants at all of this, because I just want _you_.”

“What?” Draco’s eyes are huge, his breath still coming fast, white puffs in the cold air. 

“ _What_ what? Don’t act like this is a bloody surprise to you, Draco! I want you, who the fuck else? How else do I have to prove it to you? You know I’m working my arse off with the kids at Mungo’s and this is like a second full-time job!”

“You didn’t have to do it all in a _week_ , Potter, that was totally daft—“

Somehow, Draco still sounds surprised, and composed, and fuck, that’s irritating. Harry can’t think properly with Draco’s eyes all big and beautiful like that, but he feels his anger crest and boil over. “I wanted to get it over with fast! That’s just how I do things, all right? And I just wanted to fucking go out with you already, as soon as fucking possible, because I can’t stop thinking about you _all the fucking time_ , but forget it, Malfoy, I’m _done_.” 

Harry knows he’s rapidly veering toward unhinged, but he can’t stop now. “If you don’t want me after all of this mucking about”—he motions to his clothes, to the alley, to the club behind them—“then just tell me no, for fuck’s sake, and stop forcing me to make a complete fool of myself in front of everyone. In front of _you_ especially.”

Something in Draco seems to crack open. His apologetic softness falls away, and then he’s shouting too. 

“All right, fine, you want to talk about fools? Let’s talk about fools. Dancing and poetry and snakes and all this rubbish — that’s not even _close_.” His eyes have shuttered again; now they’re just angry, and hurt. “I’ve been making a fool out of myself in front of you since we were children, Potter, starting with you leaving my hand hanging in mid-air the first time we ever met, all the way up through to you catching me sobbing my eyes out in the fucking loo. Then you had to rescue me from Fiendfyre and save my life as though I were some kind of bloody damsel in distress. Maybe some part of me just wanted to even the score.”

Even though he’s already halfway through another furious retort in his head, Harry has to pause at that. He’d never thought about it like that, never realised that Draco viewed them as… imbalanced. It makes sense, actually, and he’s still embarrassed and angry, but he feels the energy start to drain out of it. He realises how cold it is out here, and how they’re utterly alone in the damp alley. 

“Well, I suppose we’re even now,” Harry says. “I looked like a complete tosser in front of all your friends. I’m not even properly drunk, for fuck’s sake, and I just wanted you so fucking much—” Draco cuts him off with a hard kiss, grabbing the back of his neck and pressing their mouths together, and Harry is pretty sure he stops breathing as he brings his hands to Draco’s face and loses himself in the kiss. Draco is so warm in the freezing air. Harry lets his hands roam everywhere, Draco’s face and the back of his neck and his smooth bare arms. 

They break apart and stare at each other, almost astonished, and Harry can’t help it, he begins to laugh. 

“Merlin, Malfoy… we could have been doing _that_ all this time, instead of this poncy pureblood rubbish…”

“We’re both impossibly stupid, Potter, you should know that by now.” The fondness in his voice is new for Harry, and beautiful. He leans in for another kiss, but Draco stops him. 

“You really— do you really honestly want this, Harry? Want me, I mean. In that way.” Draco sounds so vulnerable; it makes Harry’s heart ache in his chest, makes his throat tighten. 

“Are you having me on? Of course I do. I’ve been wanking myself raw every night thinking about my sucking you off, or the other way ‘round…” Harry trails off, wondering if maybe that was a bit too much information, but then Draco asks in a rough, too loud, unmistakably turned-on voice, “You’ve what?” 

“You heard me. Don’t make me say it again.” Draco’s whole body trembles under his hands and suddenly Harry can’t resist. He drops to his knees, slowly, sliding them down Draco’s body and holding his gaze the whole time. 

“Well, go on then,” Draco says, trying for swagger but missing by a mile. He sounds wrecked already, disbelief and desire scraping his voice raw. 

“If sucking cock was the fifth Trial, I’d have done a lot better,” Harry says, quirking his mouth up at Draco. 

“I don’t think blowies are part of traditional courtship rituals—“ but he cuts off when Harry casts a tricky little wandless spell and Draco’s skintight trousers unbuckle themselves and move aside. 

“Show-off,” Draco breathes, his voice just a shadow of itself. 

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Harry says, and mouths Draco over his silky black pants. Draco shudders — he _shudders_ — against the wall, pressing his hips toward Harry. “Are we done courting, then? Do you think this would be acceptable for your mum—”

Draco shudders again and glowers down at Harry. “Never, ever mention my mother when you have my cock anywhere near your mouth.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Harry smiles and puts a hand on each of Draco’s thighs. Those black trousers are made out of something unexpectedly soft and thin; Harry can feel the heat of Draco’s body right through them. He palms Draco, still over his pants. Draco growls his approval low in his throat, but Harry gives him just one more stroke before he stands back up. 

Draco his eyes glitter in the dim light. “It figures you’re a tease, too, Potter, on top of everything.”

“Not a tease.” Harry smiles wickedly. “I just want to finish this properly.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll show you proper,” Draco says, leaning his head back against the brick wall and running his hands over Harry’s shoulders. “Get me out of this filthy alley and shag me properly, why don’t you—“ and that’s all Harry needs. He grabs Draco and Apparates them home, directly into his bed. The sheets are already tangled, the bed unmade, but Harry feels the house open up for them — not just the wards, but the house itself. 

Draco is everywhere, then, moving against Harry and grabbing every part of him he can reach, shoving at his trousers and yanking at his shirt and tearing the flimsy mesh in the process, thrusting his hands beneath it. His mouth is everywhere, too — hot on Harry’s neck, his face, biting his earlobes, his breath loud and hot. 

Harry grabs Draco’s slender wrists in one hand and pins them above his head. Draco gasps and ruts against him and Harry can feel the magic pouring out of himself, desire mounting with every moment — but then Draco stills beneath him, as though he’s gone suddenly shy. 

Harry stops, lets go of Draco’s wrists, and sits back on his heels. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers. “Was that too much? I—“ 

But Draco cuts him off, his voice still rough. “No, no, that was— that was good. _Really_ good.” 

Draco struggles up on his elbows. At first, Harry can barely see anything at all in the muddy darkness, and he thinks he’s so turned on that it’s affecting his vision. But then he realises no, his glasses were knocked onto his head during their grappling. He pulls them back on, and Merlin, he is fucking confused, because Draco Malfoy does not look shy. His lips are red and bitten and shining, his chest is rising and falling fast, but most of all, the look in his eyes is the most wanton, wanting look that Harry’s ever seen. His cock somehow hardens even more, aching, and he can’t help it, he reaches down and presses down to ease the pressure. 

Malfoy’s mouth drops open. 

“Yeah, fuck, Harry—“ and Harry’s just trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Draco even acknowledges the existence of the word “yeah,” let alone ever speaks it aloud, his brain cannot keep up with whatever’s happening here— “I want to watch you, please, let me—“

Draco is reaching down for his own cock, slipping a hand into his pants, and it’s an amazing sight, it’s beyond lovely to see those long fingers disappear and start to work in a steady rhythm. 

“I wanted, for so long—” Draco pauses to catch a breath as he strokes himself— “wanted to see you do this, wanted to do this with you, wanted to watch you touch yourself the way you do when you’re alone, what no one else gets to see, fuck, please, let me see—“

“What?” Of course Draco would have a deliciously filthy mouth in bed, Harry thinks, conscious of his own hand still pressing down on his cock, and even more conscious of the way Draco’s moving his own hand, wrapped tight around himself. Harry swallows hard; there’s something almost unbearably intense about seeing Malfoy pulling himself off like this. He knows just what Draco means, about seeing something no one else gets to see. Something secret and private that Draco does alone, just for his own pleasure. It’s so bloody arousing that Harry is frozen in place, mesmerised. 

“Please, don’t make me say it again, fuck—” Draco gasps, his hand moving faster. “I want to see you wank, you said you were wanking yourself raw, I want to see it, want to see you, please, Harry.”

“Yeah, yes, okay, but will you— can I see you too?” Harry asks as he Vanishes his own pants. His magic is too strong, impatient and stuttering; all these stops and starts are driving him wild. 

Draco nods, distracted, and finally shoves his pants down and kicks them off. Now Harry can see Draco’s hand flying over his cock, long and ruddy-looking in the low light. Harry strokes himself, his own hand rough and tight and familiar. 

He’s rewarded with the hottest moan he’s ever heard — honestly, it’s Draco _moaning, fuck_ — and that pushes Harry right over the edge. They’re both coming, too fast, almost before Harry realises he’s going to, pleasure curling in his belly and spreading all through him. He comes all over his hand and Draco’s trousers and part of the bed, and he keeps wanking even after he’s done, because his own hand feels so fucking good. It feels even better because Draco’s watching, and because he’s watching Draco at the same time. 

A moment later, far too soon, it’s over. They’re both panting and spent. Harry feels disbelieving laughter building deep inside him. Did this really just happen? 

“Wow,” he manages to say. “That was…” 

“Proper?” Draco says, still breathing hard, and Harry laughs. He gets a flash of what the two of them must look like from a distance — spread out on the bed, both starkers from the waist down. A matching set, equally vulnerable. In balance. 

“Mm, that’s not the word I’d use. Come here.” He pulls Draco in close, still marvelling a bit that this is really happening. Harry runs his hands over Draco’s shoulders and smooths his hair back. It’s tousled, all right. Harry’d got his chance. 

“Maybe not the most impressive performance,” Draco adds. Harry can’t see his face, but there’s an uncertain waver in his voice. 

“What? Speak for yourself. I’m amazing at rubbing one out. I’ve had loads of practice recently, you wouldn’t believe…”

Draco huffs out a laugh. “I meant me. I mean, here I am, finally in the same room with you, and I don’t even touch you? Completely daft.”

“Well, I thought that whole situation was bloody hot. And it’s not like like that’s our only chance. I hope.” Now Harry’s the one to feel suddenly shy, despite the fact that Draco’s trousers have his come all over them. “I mean, I hope we have a lot more chances. In the very near future.”

“Yes, well, there’s a lot on our agenda,” Draco says, propping himself up on an elbow and smiling down at Harry. “We’ll have to start meeting regularly. Very regularly.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Harry feels like he can physically see Draco’s guards coming down, slipping away, layer by layer. Draco’s face is so close above his that he can see Draco’s dark blond stubble again, a hint of black eyeliner that he must have put on before the club, the shine of his impossible grey eyes, the tiny crinkles at their corners. 

“So, about the Trials — you didn’t answer before. Am I done? Have I proven myself worthy of courting you?” Harry asks, joking, although some small part of him really does want to know the honest answer.

“Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a few more Trials.” Draco grins wickedly, and Harry feels his cock stir again. 

“No more Trials,” Harry says. “I’m well rid of them. And anyway, I’m sure Sir Daundelyon must have included some clause that states wanking together means you’ve officially accepted my proposal.”

“All right, fine, consider this my formal acceptance of your courtship.” Draco ducks his head, a bit embarrassed even now, still smiling that shy sweet smile. “But whether you’re marriage material — that remains to be seen, Potter.”

“Oh, I’ll see it, Malfoy.” Harry traps Draco’s wrists again and holds them lightly over his head, then casts his gaze down Draco's long and lovely body. “I’m going to see _everything_.”

Draco stretches and smirks beneath him. “Perhaps seeing is too ordinary for the likes of you. You’ll have to rap it, or recite sonnets to it, or pull a rabbit out of a hat for it.” 

“Never again.” Harry leans down to press his lips to Draco’s, and both of them are smiling. Their teeth click and the angle’s wrong but it’s perfect, it’s everything Harry’s wanted for so long. 

“I did like those rabbits,” Draco murmurs. 

“Can I interest you in a snake instead? Lumpy’s headed back to the forest tomorrow, but I’m sure I can find another one.”

Draco laughs, then, a true laugh, unlike any Harry’s ever heard from him before. He gently captures Harry’s mouth with his for a moment before he pulls away. 

“This is going to be good, isn’t it,” Draco says, earnestness and something akin to surprise in his voice. They haven’t allowed themselves much uncomplicated good in their lives; it hasn’t been handed to them, either. But this feels different. 

“Fuck, yes. This is going to be _wonderful_ ,” Harry says, smiling, and he’s never been so sure of anything in his life. Both of them close their eyes and lean into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 7th.


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